Chapter XI The Escape
Max Hilliger had not waited to ascertain who it was that had leapt out upon him from the shadows.
Against the light of the moon he had caught a glimpse of a Sea Scout’s flat-topped cap, and the young voice that had uttered his name was no doubt the voice of one of his former companions of the Lion Patrol, who had been lurking in ambush to detain him, and perhaps bring about his arrest.
Max could only believe that his assailant was Mark Redisham, who lived near, and who had already shown inconvenient vigilance against him.
Mark Redisham had by some means intercepted the pigeon with the message which he, Max, had sent to his father from on board the Minna von Barnhelm. He had dared also to enter the pigeon-loft at Sunnydene, and perhaps to examine these special maps and charts that were now going over to Germany.
“Yes,” Max ruminated as he made his way down the slopes of the cliff towards the beach, “it could only have been Mark Redisham. But whoever it was, I have given him a stinging knockdown blow that he won’t forget in a hurry!”
By paths well known to him, he reached the foot of the cliff, and started off across the grassy denes, taking cover in the hollows and in the shadows of the gorse bushes, tightly gripping the tin case of charts under his arm and the small bag which he carried in his left hand. His right hand went to his belt, where there was a loaded revolver.
“If he’d shown fight,” he reflected, fingering the weapon, “I might have used this. But it’s a good thing I didn’t. The noise would have alarmed the whole neighbourhood, and the Tommies on sentry-go along the beach would have nabbed me.”
He knew that there were armed sentries on the beach. Since the beginning of the war, the whole of the east coast of Great Britain had been patrolled and watched at night by men in khaki with loaded rifles and fixed bayonets.
He was running the risk even now of being seen and made to give an account of himself. It was for this reason that he was so careful to take cover and to make no betraying sound as he went at Scouts’ pace towards the sea.
For himself he had no fear, excepting that, if caught, he would be compelled to explain the compromising contents of his bag and the tin canister. It was the men in the waiting boat about whom he was anxious. They were Germans, and although one of them, Hermann Körner, could speak excellent English, yet the others might easily betray themselves as foreigners and enemies.
When he reached the higher ridges of sand that intervened as a natural barrier between the beach and the level grass land, he went down on his elbows and knees and crept over the loose sand until he could look down upon the foreshore. He had come out, as he had intended to do, directly opposite one of the groins of black timber that reared their protecting walls across the beach. The deep-driven piles at the near end were covered with sand; at the far end they were washed by the tide. Many a time had Max dived into the deep water from the end of this same groin. As he looked at it searchingly now, he distinguished the dark shape of the boat against the blackness. It was about fifty yards away from him, with only an open slope of sea sand and shingle between. In a few moments he might be seated in the boat, when the rowers would push off.
But on that stretch of moonlit beach two figures had suddenly appeared. They were striding quickly towards the boat. He could see the moonshine glinting on their bayonets, and hear their heavy tread on the sand. One of them lowered his rifle, with a hand on the lever, as he called out a loud challenge to the boat:
“Who comes there?”
Max Hilliger’s plan was working just as he had hoped. A tall man stood up from the boat and strode towards the two sentries.
“Friends!” he answered. And Max recognised the voice of Hermann Körner. “It’s all right, boys.”
The patrol saw only indistinctly that he wore the uniform of a naval officer. Never doubting that he was British, they drew to a halt in front of him.
“We’ve got strict orders not to let anybody come ashore,” one of them said.
“Yes, well,” was the ready response, “you do your duty. But I have my duty also. I come ashore from ze revenue schooner out there. I report something. Listen!” He had seen their regimental badges in the moonlight, and noticed that one wore a corporal’s stripe. “You are not local men,” he went on; “you are probably strangers on the coast.” He pointed to the cliff. “What sort of peoples live in the third house?” he questioned. It was Major Redisham’s house which he indicated. “You don’t know? Well, I recommend you keep a watch on it. Half an hour ago there was signals flashed from one of ze upper windows. It is well you go up and make inquiry into the matter.”
The two men in khaki were now standing with their backs to the groin, beyond which Max Hilliger was crawling stealthily to the boat.
“Do you say they’re alien spies, signallin’ to some ship out at sea?” the corporal asked.
The stranger shrugged his shoulders in a way which to any one suspicious must at once have betrayed that he was a foreigner.
“Such is my impression, corporal,” he answered, watching Max Hilliger step into the boat. “And knowing that there was a military patrol here, naturally I come ashore to warn you. Good night.”
They waited until he had returned to his companions and pushed off. Then they crossed the denes together, and climbed the cliff path to the suspected house.
Pushing open the gate, they entered the drive, where they were confronted by Mark Redisham and Darby Catchpole. Mark’s greatcoat covered his naval clothes. Darby wore his Sea Scout’s uniform, and he was dabbing his swollen nose with a blood-stained handkerchief.
“Signal lights have been seen flashing from the windows of this house,” began the corporal.
“Who said so?” demanded Mark. “I’m sure no light of any sort has been seen. All the windows are thickly curtained. You’re making a mistake.”
“Oh, no, we’re not!” insisted the corporal. “A naval officer from the revenue ship out there came ashore to tell us about it.” He indicated the Thor.
“There’s no revenue boat out there,” declared Darby Catchpole. “That ship’s not even British. You’ve been hoodwinked.” He turned to Mark. “Do you see how the trick has been played?” he cried. “It’s quite plain. While one of the boat’s crew, speaking English, came ashore and kept the patrol off the scent, Max Hilliger slipped into the boat unseen! What’s to be done?”
“If Max has gone aboard the ketch, we can’t do much more than we’ve done already,” declared Mark. “I’ve telephoned to the naval base, telling them to send out and capture the ketch while she’s still at anchor. But are you certain sure that it was Max Hilliger you saw?”
Darby dabbed his handkerchief to his nose, which was still bleeding.
“What’s the good of asking such a question?” he objected warmly. “I saw him as clearly as I see you now. He rounded on me when I called his name, and then fetched me a blow in the face that sent me sprawling. I saw what he carried, too—a long sort of tin box under his left arm and a bag in his left hand.”
“The charts!” Mark Redisham ejaculated. “The charts!” Then to the corporal he added: “It’s clear you’ve been had. The men in that boat were Germans, and a young German has escaped with them, taking a lot of charts and maps that will be no end of help to the enemy if they should attempt to land an invading army on this coast. That chap who kidded you about signal lights only wanted to draw your attention off the boat for a minute. You wouldn’t have committed a crime if you had put a bullet into him. Haven’t you been ordered not to let any boat come ashore?”
“Yes, of course,” admitted the corporal. “But he was in uniform. He looked and talked like a British naval officer.”
“Anyhow, you’ll have to report the matter to your colonel,” rejoined Mark.
The corporal seemed to have a sudden inspiration.
“How am I to know what you’re tellin’ me is true?” he demanded. “Who are you? What are you doin’, spyin’ round out here at this time of night?”
“I am the son of Major Redisham, who is now with his regiment in France,” Mark answered. “I am, myself, in the Royal Naval Reserve, serving the King. My chum, here, is a Sea Scout. If that isn’t enough, you can go up to the house and see my mother.”
“Listen!” cried Darby Catchpole excitedly. “The ketch is lifting her anchor! She’s making sail! Come along—quick! Don’t stand jawing here.”
The patrol shouldered their rifles and followed the two boys down to the beach. There came to them a curious, spluttering sound, like that of a motor-car being started. Mark Redisham stood still, listening and watching. The Thor’s sails were up, but there was very little wind to fill them. Nevertheless, she was moving. There was a commotion of water under her stern.
“She’s got petrol engines!” Mark declared. “Look! Look, she’s off!”
The corporal, realising the gravity of his former omission, now attempted to repair it. He threw himself forward on a knoll of sand, and levelling his rifle, took aim and fired at the escaping ketch.